Of Tweed and Cake
by Madame Seabush
Summary: Someone orders Sherlock a stripper cake for his birthday. Oneshot. AU ? .


**A/N**: Inspired by the prompt "Someone orders Sherlock a stripper cake for his birthday". Oneshot. Crack. AU(?).

* * *

Everyone stopped, staring at the young man that had jumped from the cake. Suit, bowtie, elbow pads. He personified tweed.

Sherlock quirked a brow. His sexuality was often under speculation, given his relationship with John Watson. But what fascinated him was that this didn't appear to be their plan, shock plainly written on everyone's face. He was willing to see where this was going.

The man in tweed stood, perplexed for a moment, then two, before he turned before he caught sight of the Consulting Detective. Not entirely _bothered_ by the development, then but certainly intrigued – and judging by the man's reputation, perhaps a nice little mystery was better than a stripper.

The 'stripper music' that had been playing came to a screeching halt, as the man smiled. The sixth of January. Sherlock's birthday. He had timed that very well indeed – and accurately, surprisingly. Given that his chosen transport was so often 'out of sorts', he did have a habit of being a little... late, at times.

"Sherlock Holmes!" The Doctor exclaimed brightly, "That's a relief!" he breathed. "I thought I burst out of the wrong cake…!" a pause, "…again."

Third time lucky, he supposed.

"That reminds me, there's a girl standing outside in a bikini…can someone let her in and give her a jumper?" he asked, looking hopeful. "Lucy? Lovely girl." He described her, before ducking his head and whispering "diabetic" like it was some sort of secret.

His audience shifted uncomfortably, not quite knowing what was happening, not quite sure if it was for the better. The tweed did tend to go hand in hand with cable knit jumpers, and despite being a great deal younger than the good Doctor Watson (the fact he was a Time Lord, not withstanding) it was in poor taste.

"Now then, Sherlock." The Doctor gave a small celebratory clap, despite his uncertainty. It didn't revive the room.

Letting his hands rest on the edge of the cardboard rim of the cake he had waited patiently to jump out of (and had done so more than three times that night – all rather awkward occasions, but certainly not discouraging). "We need to talk about _John Watson_."

The truth of the matter was that he may have involuntarily stolen the medical man in a moment of fan boy misjudgment. Companions always complimented his Holmes with their Watson, but… some days, the only Watson he really wanted…was, really Watson.

Sherlock couldn't help but think that John had gone and gotten himself kidnapped again and speculated on the possibility that this was another game. Moriarty did so often enjoy the chance to manipulative a potentially sexual situation. And a stripper cake did have a certain Moriarty appeal to it.

"Firstly, can I address the elephant in the room? WELL, it's not in the room right now. "The Doctor announced with a chuckle but yielded no smiles and straightened his expression. "Even though it _isn't_, can I be the first to express my disappointment? _No moustache_."

"I noticed this _without_, of course…the… It became somewhat hard not to notice when…" he realised only then that he hadn't mentioned that particularly part of the story, well, abduction, _well_, abduction was such a strong word. He had _every_ intention of returning the man safely to his own time stream _and_ universe.

Either way, his initial point wasn't going to make much sense if he didn't start at the beginning, then go on until he came to the end…then stop.

…Even if he was _technically_ starting at the end.

"He tried to kiss me." The Doctor confessed, recalling the incident with a startling amount of detail. Eager hands pulling free his suspenders, pressed up against the TARDIS with a definite hardness pressed into his thigh. It would appear that Watson thrived on adrenaline. Something they didn't cover in the Arthur Conan Doyle novels.

…At least not to that extent.

Wetting his lips, he attempted to explain himself. "He kissed me because I was there, of course." He began, "It would have been you. It _should_ have been you." Glossing over the larger picture, which was the fact that he had essentially stolen the man and taken him into space. "He was frightened, I was frightened…and then… we survived and –"he trailed off, knowing the rest was pretty self explanatory.

Raising his brow and attempting to keep the situation lighthearted. "…tell you what though, you're a lucky man, he's a great kisser." He added.

The room fell silent save for the smash of dropped glass, as he panned over the faces. He was getting undesirable looks now, a few vacant stares, a few flustered ones and certainly a few glares. However, Sherlock remained remarkably pensive despite himself.

The Doctor became increasingly perturbed as he was met by a lack of response, and he stood straighter under the scrutinous crowd. "Funny how you can say something in your head and it _sounds_ fine." He said, anxiously looking around before averting his gaze downward.

That hadn't gone quite to plan.


End file.
